


Blood Soaked Empires

by karrotsandknives



Category: Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dream Team SMP Setting (Video Blogging RPF), Alternate Universe - Medieval, BadBoyHalo - Freeform, Basically this is if the Dream SMP took place in a fantasy/medieval world, Drabble, Dream Smp, I’ve been in this block hell for months now., Transcribed, and this is how george and dream met, antfrost - Freeform, dream - Freeform, georgenotfound - Freeform, oh boy!, sapnap - Freeform, skeppy - Freeform, this is now multiple chapters!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-15 00:34:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29550759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/karrotsandknives/pseuds/karrotsandknives
Summary: Now bathed in yellow light, the man could see the details of the stranger. They were wrapped in a green cloak, cloth torn and muddy at the fringes. It hung awkwardly around their body, letting only the slightest hint of an axe peek through, and from what George could tell, it was crystalline. Most unnerving, they had no face, only a mask with a crude, childish smile scribbled on.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 4





	1. A Meeting of Two

Spruce trees were abundant, and therefore, the first homes were spruce. Quaint and small, they were simple places to sleep and hide from Mother Nature. They were not elegant by any means, but they held a bed and storage. Functional, without any glamour. The ladder would come in time, as more and more huts were created, carpenters expanding upon their experience. With shoddily made tools, such as pickaxes, shovels, and sharpened blades to fall trees, stone was harvested and fixed together to create bricks. The huts grew to have roofs, water sliding off instead of dripping in. Stone led to iron, and life improved overnight. No longer were elaborate mazes the best way to protect valuables. Without a button or a lever, iron doors were impossible to get through. Even better, the iron could be smelted, hammered, cooled, and molded to protect the body itself. The birth of armor, strong and resilient. Alas, so were weapons birthed, clean for now, but ready to be bloodied. No one dared to say it, but they were witnessing the infancy of death, agony, and war.

It began with a quartet of men. Whilst traveling, they met each other, and spent many days and nights sharing stories, breaking bread, and forming alliances. These men did not begin as kings, but rather countrymen with dreams of something larger, something grander than their own homes could offer. Their intent was to only create a land where they could have control over their own destinies. Malice was never in the original plan, but rather peace and entertainment.

  
  
When George set out from his small village, bringing only a pair of glasses, the lenses tinted and shaded heavy black, he wanted to build a small home. Nothing more, nothing less. The wilderness was where he felt at home, and living in nature brought him joy. Even on the first three nights, when demonic creatures and undead beings plagued him, he found the sunrise even more enjoyable. He survived the night, and proved himself worthy of living another day. He often thought that this was how man first experienced civilization: cold, perilous, but rewarding.

  
  
The fourth day on his own, he managed to find coal. He spent almost all day extracting it from the earth, the nails on his fingers worked down to nubs. George was exhausted, and he found himself only able to craft weak, dim torches. They would not keep the ghouls away, but with a door on his hut, he believed he would be safe. Just before he shut his eyes, the most peculiar event occurred. While the torches were not very strong, they still stayed lit. They always stayed lit, as his own father taught him how to champion such a feat. But, on the fourth night, they went out. Darkness swallowed the forest, and he prayed to whatever holy being there was that he would not die now.

  
  
On the fifth morning, George woke up moments before dawn, unharmed. He anticipated the mournful sound of monsters, but save for the sound of steel striking flint, it was silent. He grabbed his iron sword, one of the few keepsakes he took from his old life, and threw open the door to his shelter, pointing it at whatever was out there. A figure was huddled by a torch, lighting it up once again. It burned something fierce, and it was then that George saw that all the torches were lit again, expanding the room he had to safely live in.

  
  
Now bathed in yellow light, the man could see the details of the stranger. They were wrapped in a green cloak, cloth torn and muddy at the fringes. It hung awkwardly around their body, letting only the slightest hint of an axe peek through, and from what George could tell, it was crystalline. Their hands, bandaged, bloody, and ashy, held the worn flint and steel. The bandages crawled up their arms to their tunic. Around their pants belt were bottles of mysterious liquids, and their boots were slender and aerodynamic, perfect for the nimble. Most unnerving, they had no face, only a mask with a crude, childish smile scribbled on.

  
  
“Sorry,” They say, slowly standing up with their hands raised. “Noticed your torches weren’t looking too great. Thought I’d help out.” They tilted their head to the side, and through the small holes in the mask, George could see their eyes: cold, calculating, but deeply interested. He adjusted his hold on his sword, pointing it at the stranger insistently.

  
  
“Weren’t you ever taught manners? It’s impolite to do something like that,” George stated, standing his ground.

  
  
“... You mean helping relight your torches?”

  
“What? No, sneak up on a fellow like that.”

  
  
“Oh, yeah, that makes more sense. Hm,” The stranger stepped closer, placing their tools into a small pouch, then holding out a hand. “I guess I should have said something first, sorry about that. Do you have a name?”

  
  
He takes a step closer, sword still ready. “And if I do?”  


“I… will address you by it.”

  
  
A tense silence filled the air, until with a snort, George cracked. The mysterious man snorted as well, and just as the sun began to rise, they laughed together. The weapon was put away, and the green cloak was closed, giving the illusion of only a verdant humanoid.

  
  
“You’ve got a point,” George says, bouncing on his feet and shaking their hand. “My name is George, I’m from a village far from here. And yourself?”

The person nods, accepting the information. “I’m from far off as well. I want to say two hundred miles, maybe more? That’s about three hundred kilometers, I think.”

“And your name?”

“Right, um.” The new friend looked away, and George could barely even catch a glimpse of what laid under the mask. It was skin, but beyond that, it was hidden. “I go by a lot of names, you know? I guess ‘Druda’ is the one I use most.”

“Isn’t that a Roman name?”

“Is it?”

“I don’t know, I’m asking you. It’s _your_ name.”

“Fair enough. I think it is, but I’ve never really looked into it.” The man, Druda, wandered over to the campsite George made the night before, offering an opposing seat to the Englishman. “So, George, where exactly do you hail from?”

“Glowecestrescire,” He said, ignoring the surprised body language Druda presented. “I know, it’s a mouthful. I originally left to be on my own, and I have to say,” He laughs, shaking his head. “It’s a lot lonelier than I anticipated.”

The other shrugged and chuckled as well, crossing his arms. “Yeah, travel can take a toll on others, especially if they don’t have anyone else.” He knelt down by the firepit, grabbing charred wood and placing them neatly in the circle. He reached behind, gathering pine needles, leaves, and dead grass to toss in as well. Standing upright and cracking his back, Druda then set out on finding dry branches and wood, anything to make a fire. George watched with great fascination, stopping his gazing to think on what just occurred.

A stranger, totally unknown, wandered to his camp, fixed his torches, and was suddenly interested in knowing his life? Sure, this man hadn’t asked much, but the red flags were beginning to raise. George’s hand went to his side— not on his sword, but close— and he waited for another question to be asked of him. Druda returned, and another had been prepared.

“So, what’s up with the glasses?”

“I don’t see the world as you do,” He explained, the answer routine and repetitive. “The way I experience color is different from how you experience it. A glassblower from my home made these glasses for me. They don’t fix the issue, but they make it easier to see.”

The faceless head looked around at the forest. “So, you can see better through glass? And you see all of this differently than I see it?”

“Are you going to kill me?”

Druda jumped in surprise, turning his attention back. “What?”

“I asked, ‘are you going to kill me?’ I feel it’s an easy question to answer.” His hand had slid to the leather bound hilt of the sword.

“... George, right?”

He nods.

“If I wanted to kill you, I would have done it already. I wouldn’t have wasted my flint and steel relighting your torches. I would have cut your head off and taken your seeing-aids—“

“Glasses.”

“—Right, glasses. I would have cut your head off and taken your glasses for myself. I’m not interested in killing you. Does that help— do you feel less freaked out?”

A pause, then George’s hand dropped away from the weapon. “I do,” He confirms, standing up and walking back to his tent. “Care for breakfast?”

“Being accused of murderous intent does make me hungry,” Coldly, Druda comments. George snorts a short laugh, and he shakes his head.

“Doing the accusing works up an appetite.”


	2. Within the Trees

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonfilius - BadBoyHalo  
> Sigrad - Sapnap  
> Sibald - Skeppy  
> Antonlio - AntFrost

“Boni, can you hurry it up? You’re slowing us down.”

“Okay, first off,  _ Sigrad _ , it’s Bonfilius, okay? Second off, I’m not trying to slow us down, Sibald is just packing up our stuff, right, Sibald?”

A man looked up from his work, eyes blue as diamonds, and a jester-like grin from ear to ear. “Oh, uh, yeah! Packing up! Um, Bonfilius, how do I fold the tarp?”

The two men that had been bickering both sighed, looking between each other. One was tall and lean, wearing an ebony and red cloak. The hood hid his face, but two ivory eyes pierced the soul. Above the hood were two, long horns, matte in nature. Whatever this being was, both men saw it as an equal, as a friend, and as Bonfilius. The shorter of the two was still a head taller than average height. He wore no cloak, proudly showing the spoils from previous battles. Most notably was the orange tunic he sported, caring for it with great pride. Orange was a difficult color to come by, and the man he took it from wasn’t deserving of it. Everything he wore came from those undeserving to own great trinkets.

Bonfilius, with a good deal of patience, walked to Sibald, kneeling down and showing the smaller man how to fold it. Before any new folds were made, he picked it up and shook out the water, making a face that no one would be able to see. “Okay, first off, muffin-head,” He teasingly chided, “You need to get the water off. It’ll cause mold and I don’t want to sleep under a moldy tarp.”

Sibald huffed, rolling his eyes. “You don’t even sleep under the tarp, you just sleep on your feet!”

“I know, but mold smells really bad, and I—“

“ _ Shh! _ ” Sigrad hushed them, looking deep into the forest. The man and the creatures ceased their bickering and watched as a bow and arrow were slowly drawn. Like lightning, the ammunition was fired through the branches, and a loud, human yelp echoed through. Bonfilius and Sibald both stood up, grabbing their shields and weapons, Bonfilius with an axe, and the ladder with a sword. Sigrad lifted his free hand to signal them to wait, placing the recurve bow back around his shoulder. Mid-movement, a cloaked figure jumped from the trees, axe branished, sharp, and bloody. It clashed with Sigrad, nearly severing the bow in twain, and a battle boiled over.

Bonfilius and Sibald were rushing to their comrade’s side when the sound of thundering footfall stole their attention. A horse, rivaling the tallest man in height. They staggered back to avoid being trampled, eyeing the steed, then the man who rode on top. Blue smock-frock, dark orbs obscuring his eyes, and a red splotch, growing around his shoulder, the surprisingly intimidating figure scowled. The stallion steadied and blocked their path, while a short sword pointed at the two. Sibald reached his arm out to stop his friend, blocking the weapon with a battered shield.

“Druda,” The wounded call out over his shoulder. “It’s not worth it! Let’s go!”

The masked assailant lost attention for a moment, giving Sigrad the time to attack. With a hunting knife from his boot, he lunged forward, plunging it into his opponent’s side. They— ‘Druda’— coughed and gasped in shock, and Sigrad took the chance to slam into him, knocking the man in green to the ground. All other parties stared in shock, the quarrel forgotten. Sigrad approached, the knife still out and pointed down.

“You are beaten,” He said, unable to hide the smug tone. It does peter away when he continues, “Yield.”

The tension created was thicker than the fog, and even the croaks from frogs and toads could not lessen it. Reluctantly, and to the surprise of the cavalier, his friend dropped his head.

“I yield. What rewards do you demand?” The opponent asked, emotionless and dull.

“An answer as to why you were spying on us.”

“To see what the  _ fuck  _ that thing is,” He said, motioning to Bonfilius. The creature made a crossed face and put his sword away, holding up his index finger.

“Okay, first off, language, second off, that’s not your business,” He answered, his voice picking up in tone towards the end. “Third off, I feel like you’re lying and like there’s more than that.”

Sigrad nodded, taking a step closer and pointing the knife more insistently. “Answer the question, or I’ll stab you again, and this time, I won’t show mercy in my aim.”

“Well,” the Englishman spoke up, breathing harder, as he had been bleeding longer. “We were traveling, bandits stole our food, and we were going to politely ask. Then you shot me with an arrow.”

Sibald snorted to himself, and as did Bonfilius. Sigrad shot the two a look, then relaxed his appearance when addressing the Englishman. “I’m sorry about that, but we’ve been ambushed before—“ The masked individual laughed, cold and harsh. Sigrad stepped closer, pressing the blade to his throat. All other men flinched, ready to jump in should they have to.

“What? You find it funny we’ve been robbed?”

He shrugged. “I find it hard to believe. We were quiet, and you still picked us out easily. You were trained.”

“Everyone is taught to listen and track things, what about it?”

He laughed again, shaking his head. The friction from the knife caused the faintest red line, clean and crisp. “No, not like that. Plus, if I’m not wrong, those shields are specially designed for military use. I don’t see an army nearby, either. You three are deserters.”

Silence joined the conversation, and no one else said anything. Sibald shuffled his feet awkwardly while Bonfilius looked away. Sigrad did nothing. He held eye contact with the mask, damning the beady, black dots that passed for irises. The man on the horse cleared his throat whilst dismounting, grunting softly in pain. “It’s alright if you are. We won’t report you.”

“Most likely.”

“Druda,” He warned harshly, holding a hand out for anyone to shake. No one took it, either too nervous, transfixed on the arrow that gathered blood, or occupied with threatening someone’s life. “But, that is Druda. I’m George. We’ve been traveling together for several months now. Do you all have names?”

“No,” Sigrad answered coldly, pulling the knife back and dropping it back into his boot. “Also, we aren’t deserters. And,” He paused, pointing at Druda. “To stop any smartass comments I know you’ll make, we aren’t deserters  _ because  _ we fled for our own safety. Not all of us made it, though.”

“What do you mean?” The question was met with silent sadness, though even that felt purposefully muted. It hurt much more than they were letting on. The tall, dark creature walked closer, placing a hand on Sigrad to have him relax.

“What he means is that someone else was fleeing with us, but he didn’t make it. He was caught in a trap while helping us flee.” He held out a hand and Druda took it, standing up. He was an average height, but he still had to look up to see the other’s face— or lack thereof, as it was a dark void with two white eyes.

“His name was Antonlio, and we all trained and fought together. We’re putting distance between ourselves and the army so we can create a plan, then head back in. We can’t exactly walk up to them.”

“What happened?”

“We were suspected of being traitors, of conspiring against the general. In reality, we were trying to improve upon plans. You see— okay, so, the four of us were part of an elite military group, but the general kept using us for weird things. Like, we weren’t supposed to be known about, but he kept using us as if we were normal troops, so when it came time for secretive missions—“

“The enemy would be prepared,” Druda finished, his temper having calmed down to an eerie level. He spoke almost as if he understood the struggle firsthand.

“And we would pay the price,” Sigrad continued. Whilst Bonfilius spoke, he must have searched through his own bag, because bandages were being thrown to Druda. “Originally, the squadron had ten people. Now it’s down to four.”

George, who was now being tended to by Druda, whistled. “I see what you all mean, he sounds awful. Your friend, is he being held prisoner, or…?”

“Traitors are executed,” Sibald said, not beating around the bush. George looked at Druda, made a face, and they began to whisper between each other.

Bonfilius frowned, pointing a finger. “Okay, that’s kind of rude.” Sigrad guffawed and rolled his eyes. He continued to pack up their camp, refusing to speak, refusing to make eye contact. Bonfilius and Sibald knew what this meant, and no matter what they said, the soldier would simply be set in his belief of hopelessness and pessimism.

“Okay, we’ll help you.”

All three turned back around, and George, the very man they had wounded earlier, was upright and smiling— dear lord, he looked excited. Druda, with the mono-expression of a mask, did have his axe and shield prepared. “We’ll help you rescue your friend.”

“Why?” Sigrad had been puzzled by this, confused why two strangers would help, it simply didn’t make sense.

“Because,” Druda said, shrugging his shoulders, “being left behind hurts.”

A bizarre man, Druda was. An enigma, a mystery, a riddle without an answer. George seemed just as invested in the answer as the other three did, but it was the mass curiosity that made Druda continue with a less serious answer:

“Plus, if you don’t let us help, we’ll burn your stuff.”

“We would, in a heartbeat.”

Sibald nearly lost his mind, cackling and laughing at the two. Bonfilius joined in, and the two rested hands on each other’s shoulders, trying to steady their balance. George laughed lightly, shaking his head and explaining that no, he was indeed joking. A small argument broke out between them, and it devolved into telling each other that they did understand how jokes and humor work.

Ensuring that Druda wasn’t looking and was too focused on the collective joy, Sigrad snickered. He would have said something similar, as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bonjor, i have not abandoned this.
> 
> i’m currently working full time, so chapters come out really slowly. i also wanna say before anything else, there’s not gonna be any kind of shipping of any kind. even with their fictional/canon characters, i just don’t feel comfortable writing it.
> 
> leave kudos and or comments if you’re enjoying this, it lets me know if i should be continuing or if there’s anything i can fix!


	3. The Forgotten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's a short prelude before i really disappear to write the next chapter.

Information is most often found at social hubs, and the late night campfire was a well of tidbits. For example, whilst talking about the monsters that occasionally plagued the night or the caves that had not been lit well enough, everyone agreed upon the fact that Bonfilius, the darkened creature that was keeping watch, was a total mystery. Clearly, he was not a human, but he was not a malicious sort of monster either. He simply was. Sigrad and Sibald also agreed that they had never seen him show up to training. One day, he wasn’t there, and the next, he was. It would be far more unnerving if he wasn’t such a gentle giant. He didn’t swear, he didn’t say profane things, and was generally a kind thing to speak to. Despite the intimidating appearance, Bonfilius was a good soul.

“So, he was just there?” George asked between bites of pork, specifically from the pigs that Bonfilius butchered.

“Yeah, no one really wanted to question it,” Sibald answered, turning around to look at the creature, currently bent over to look at a flower. “Plus, he’s good to fight beside.”

“And to fill my pillows with mud,” Sigrad said pointedly, but without malice. Sibald laughed, poking Sigrad’s side.

“It was funny! Admit it, it was really funny.”

“I’m not saying it wasn’t, christ!”

“Then say it was funny.”

“... George, Druda,” Sigrad, refusing to give his friend the satisfaction of humor, changed the focus and subject. “What about you two? What did you do before traveling?”

Druda motioned for George to go first, so he did. “Well, I was training to be a doctor, but I wanted to explore the world. So much hasn’t been seen, and I wanted to find things people could only dream of. For— Like, for example, when I was traveling through a lake, I saw a massive, underwater pyramid— a sort of place of worship, maybe? I don’t know. When I tried to get closer, I saw these monsters I have never seen before, either! They were grey and brown and they were faster than any fish I had even encountered. I was floored. I want to see if there are more, if there are other places like that, I want to see the entire world.”

Everyone remained silent once George was finished speaking, surprised at the sudden burst of passion. Red dusted his cheeks and he cleared his throat, biting into his pork to occupy himself. Sigrad shuffled and grabbed his waterskin, lifting it into the air for a moment. Sibald followed suit, and picking up on the cue, so did Druda.

“To George and his travels,” Sigrad hailed. The other men grunted in agreement and they all drank their water or beer. George laughed nervously, removing his glasses and rubbing them clean with his shirt. “It’s not impressive, really.”

“You’re right, it’s not,” Sigrad agreed, wiping some water from his lips. “But, you have a passion and drive for it that many people don’t. That’s what makes it admirable; that’s what makes you an explorer.”

He smiled bashfully at the praise, unsure what to make of it. He raised his own waterskin, mumbled under his breath, and took a long drink. Had they not gone to the river together to fill them, everyone would have been mistaken that it was booze in some capacity. He drank with the same fever of a nervous man. He finished what he could, then motioned to Druda. “What about you? I shared information, it’s your turn.”

The man, who had barely lifted his mask to drink, stayed silent, staring at the fire. The light flickered and danced across the painted smile, and George was ready to move on when he spoke: “I had a sister.”

The fire crackled, almost like laughter, though no one else said a word. “Had?”

His head turned to Sibald when he asked for clarification. “Have. She’s alive. I don’t see her often.”

“Why not?”

He shrugs his shoulders and looks at the orange and yellow flames. It’s a simple question, but the answer was complicated, elaborate. It was a complex answer. Still, he tried his best to explain.

“I’m from a small kingdom. It’s nice and everything, but it wasn’t what I wanted. I wanted to see what was beyond castle walls and farms and villages. I wanted to leave and never come back. Push ahead, you know? My sister, Drista, encouraged it. She,” He paused, laughing to himself for a moment. “She’s a smart kid. I hope she’s alright.”

“If she’s anything like you, I’m sure she is,” Sibald offers, and Druda accepts, nodding and lifting his mask enough to drink more.

“What’s under there?”

He stopped, dropping the mask back down and staring down Sigrad. The man asked an honest question, but he was clearly waiting for an answer. Upon the silence turning awkward, he asked again, “What’s under there? Your mask?”

The wind blew through the trees, and the branches groaned under the stress. Even Bonfilius, who had been absent for the conversation, turned his head to the campfire, sensing the tension. It was thicker than any sort of sludge, any brambles, and potentially, more venomous than any snake, should anyone threaten to break it. While pauses in conversation were normal, and very frequent within the group, this was different. This was a man, purposefully withholding his words, forcing everyone else to crumble under the discomfort. Everyone else, but Sigrad. He remained steadfast, nearly making eye contact, had it not been for the mask and the lighting playing tricks.

Sigrad looked ready to say something, but the air went still, cold, and thin. The oncoming noise is what alerted them, and instantly, they looked at the ground. Even Druda fixed his head to the forest floor, ignoring the snapping noise behind them as air was displaced. A low chittering echoed through the encampment, and it continuously moved, never staying in one place. No one said it, but they could see the long, inky black haunches of the Enderman. It gathered a pile of dirt and started to place it elsewhere, like it was desperately trying to replicate a memory. It wouldn’t get there, it never would. Empty minds with only the need to move and kill. The subject of many children’s tales, the beasts were far more sad than anything a father could tell his children. Haunted shells of what once was.

The monster was there for a while, almost playfully moving dirt around. Just maybe, this had been a child, fascinated with creation. A child who had strayed too far from home, and never returned. The transformation into a creature of the night was one no one quite understood. There were rumors that two men had figured it out, but they were only rumors from the far east. There was no validity behind them, and while unspoken, everyone agreed it was most likely from a merchant, desperate to scam people into buying maps, or traveling to a fake village. Greedy men taking advantage of those who lost their humanity.

The stars in the sky vanished, and it turned sinister. A rumble of thunder, the threat of rain, and the poor creature teleported away. The air crackled with the energy it left behind, only faint, hazy purple wisps. One by one, everyone lifted their head up and also got to work. They put out the fire, set up torches in strategic positions to prevent monsters coming close, and wrapped their foods in heavy pouches. Should a bear or wolf grow hungry, it would have difficulties stealing from the group.

No more words were said, no one else asked questions. A sign from God or not, it was clear: What was under the unnerving mask was a secret between Druda and the dead.

**Author's Note:**

> bruh, how did block men take over my life?
> 
> if you enjoy the story, please leave kudos! it’ll let me gauge how well received the story is, and if i should continue


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